


Kaleidoscope

by Alraune315



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Lemon, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 20:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5942167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alraune315/pseuds/Alraune315
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus remembers how their relationship had begun - with a smile; and then there had been coffee, and gambling, and bats and kisses. There are a thousand glittering beautiful memories, but there are also those dark days; those days that make Marcus shiver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kaleidoscope

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: None of this is mine; everything belongs to the great Joanne K. Rowling.
> 
> Warnings: Slash, obviously; mention of Chara-Death
> 
> A/N: Yet another Marcus/Harry-story, I obviously can’t stop writing them! This is a bit of a romantic story, but not kitschy (well, I hope so, at least) and darker than one might expect. For those who know my story “All Of Me”, this one will be quite different, concerning the relationship between the two as well as my style of writing.

On some days Marcus can’t even believe how lucky he is.

Here he is, lying in bed with a gorgeous man who is _his_ alone; and while this man is still asleep, Marcus knows he will wake any moment now. His lashes flutter and he rolls to the side, nuzzling his face against Marcus’ shoulder.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

“Morning,” Marcus says and pulls him closer with one arm.

“What d’you want to today?” he asks, his voice still hoarse from sleep. He asks this question every morning; and every time, Marcus gives the same answer.

“Spend the day with you,” he says; and he rolls onto his back and smiles at him lazily.

“I don’t feel like getting up today. You up for a day in bed?”

“Yes,” Marcus says; and he skids nearer towards him again, looking for warmth and closeness; and Marcus encloses him in his arms. Sighing deeply, he relaxes in his arms and within minutes, he falls asleep again.

And Marcus lies quietly, stroking his hair, and remembers. Their love had not surprised him, had not started burning like a fire; it had been slow, but unstoppable like a tree growing, small and fragile at first, but growing stronger and stronger every day and reaching for the sky at last.

xXx

It started with a smile.

Marcus only smiled rarely – his smiles were no pretty things – but one day, Potter smiled at him in the cafeteria at the Ministry, a steaming cup in one hand and a biscuit in the other; and Marcus was so surprised that he smiled back at him.

Normally, other people stopped smiling when they saw his smile, but Potter’s smile turned into a grin and he brightly wished him a good morning and passed on as if nothing had happened.

And all day long, Marcus couldn’t get the smile out of his mind.

xXx

“Flint, Puddlemere United’s Keeper fractured their knee cap on a Ring today and their coach brought up the issue of widening the diameter of the Rings – would you mind looking into it?” Abbott, his ever nervous colleague, held out her trembling hands, presenting him with a stack of documents. She was so afraid of him she flinched every time he said a word– which was why he normally refrained from speaking to her.

He took the documents from her without a word, but froze mid-step when Potter crossed his path and smiled at him casually. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Marcus said and smiled back. Abbott gave a squeal; if due to his smile or due to her being a die-hard-Potter-fangirl he didn’t know, but for some reason he hoped it was the first and not the latter.

With a sigh he sat down at his desk and stared at the documents in front of him. Those were the days when he wished his working as a Chaser for the Brighton Bats could pay for his rent and his food – but as it was, he had not received his salary for six months now because the Brighton Bats were too deeply in debt for that. And if they continued losing their every game because of shitty equipment and discouraged players, even less spectators would come to see their games and they would slip even further into debt.

He should probably quit instead of working his arse off in two jobs, and one of them being a crappy job in the Department for Magical Sports at that, but he felt a weird kind of loyalty to his team.

Reluctantly, he picked up a feather and stared at the tiny, crooked letters in front of him. But suddenly, he remembered Potter’s smile and started working with a flourish.

xXx

“Flint! You won’t believe what just happened!”

“Really,” Marcus grunted. He sat in the locker room, removing his leather gloves and flexing his fingers. The gloves were too small for him, but his hands were so ridiculously large that he would need custom-made Quidditch gloves which were way too costly. He paid only little attention to his bumbling team mate Shaw.

“Yes! Someone just bought the Brighton Bats!”

Marcus actually dropped his gloves at that. “What?”

“Yes! Someone actually bought the Brighton Bats!”

“Who would be mad enough to invest even one Knut into this club?” Marcus asked with a frown.

“No one knows; it’s an anonymous sponsor. The coach cried when he heard the news – apparently every player is to receive the new Firebolt 7 and a completely new set of Quidditch gear. The stadium will be completely renovated _and_ everyone will receive the salaries from the last moths.”

Marcus snorted. “This must be some mad fool. I’ll only believe that when I see it.”

xXx

The anonymous sponsor turned out to be an indeed mad fool with considerably more money than wits.

Feeling something like wonder, Marcus turned his new Firebolt 7 in his hands. He wore brand new, perfectly fitting custom-made Quidditch gloves and his shiny new uniform with their new emblem. Their new sponsor had decided to change their logo of three rather droopy looking bats to one stylized bat in a yellow circle on their now-black Quidditch cloaks.

Training had not been this successful for months, Marcus remembered – it couldn’t only be the new brooms, the new equipment, not even the sight of the stadium with workers crawling over it, tiny as ants from above, making everything shiny and glorious. But what it was, he didn’t know.

xXx

“Would you like to have a coffee with me?”

Potter had, quite unexpectedly, turned up in his office with a smile on his face and a spring in his step.

Marcus blinked at him in surprise. But as soon as his surprise had faded, he didn’t really have to think about it. “Yes, why not,” he said and got up from his chair.

A squeaky sound made him turn– his co-worker Abbott had started hyperventilating, her hands pressed to her mouth and her eyes fixed on Potter.

Potter smiled again, but it was an empty smile that held no candle to the way he had smiled at Marcus. “Would you like an autograph?” he asked, his voice not unkind, but too practiced to hold any kind of emotion.

“Y-y-yes,” she whimpered and Potter took a photo of himself from her trembling hands. Marcus hated that photo – it stood on her desk, directly before her and he often caught her staring at it dreamily before she noticed his scowl and hastily started working again. It showed Potter holding up his Order of Merlin, First Class, and waving and smiling at probably a thousand hysterical people; but the smile never reached his eyes in the photo.

Potter signed the photo with a careless long-practiced flourish and gave the photo back to her. “There you go, Miss Abbott.”

“Oh!” she squeaked, probably wondering how he knew her name – not that it needed a genius to figure that out as their names were posted outside the door and there was no way anyone could ever mistake _him_ to be Holly Abbott. “Would you – I mean, can I ask something of you?”

“Of course,” Potter said, a slightly impatient tone to his voice.

“Can you… can you sign another photo for me? It’s for my sister, Hannah Abbott, she was in your year at Hogwarts, you may remember her –”

“Yes, of course,” Potter said and took the second photo she produced for him from her drawer (it was the exact same photo and Marcus wondered if she had a stock of them somewhere) and signed it. “Say hi to your sister from me. It was good to meet you. Are you coming, Marcus?”

Marcus, he thought, he had called him Marcus. No one except his parents had ever called him Marcus and suddenly, he felt his nerves fluttering.

xXx

They had coffee almost daily now, not in the over-crowded Ministry cafeteria, though, but in the small kitchen next to Harry’s Auror office. Yes, Harry – Marcus had never before called anyone by their first name, but he had specifically asked to be called Harry.

Then they crouched on uncomfortable bar stools, Marcus sitting hunched because furniture would always be too small for him, and sipped their coffees. Marcus liked his black and strong whereas Harry would come up with a fancy new creation every day. “It’s a Muggle thing,” he had explained. “Frappuchino with soy milk, brown sugar and vanilla spice, would you like to try?”

Marcus had tried and almost spit it out again on the spot, but Harry had only laughed at him.

And he always asked questions about Marcus’ life – but not in the nosy way most people did and that drove Marcus mad – he always made clear very quickly that he wished no questions about his private life, thank you very much. But Harry would tell a story – how he and Weasley had caught a wizard who thought it funny to use Neverending-Vomit-Curses on Muggles in Edinburgh; and then he would ask “Have you ever been to Edinburgh?” and Marcus would tell him no, and Harry would smile and tell him to visit one day because it was beautiful.

Today, he told Marcus how he had tried to shape Weasley’s daughter into a Seeker, but that he thought it a fruitless task. “Kid’s more of a Chaser,” he said. “What about you? You are Chaser for the Brighton Bats, aren’t you?”

“How do you know?” Marcus asked in surprise.

“I read the article in Brooms & Twigs the other day about you scoring seven goals in just one game, that’s pretty impressive.”

Marcus shrugged. “It’s good that we got that new sponsor – finally we have decent stuff. We’re doing a lot better this season.”

“Yeah, I placed a bet of fifty Galleons on you winning against the Glasgow Griffins, so you’d better not disappoint me.” He laughed while saying that and Marcus enjoyed the spark in his gaze.

The Glasgow Griffins were currently the best team in the British Quidditch League, but he _knew_ that they could beat them. “I won’t,” he promised; and Harry smiled and somehow Marcus felt that he had said a lot more with that.

xXx

“I just made five hundred and fifty Galleons thanks to you,” Harry announced the next week. “You scored nine goals in one game, this is crazy.”

“Were the odds that bad?” Marcus asked with a frown.

“Yeah – I mean, your team has gotten better, but you’re still in the lower half of the League,” Harry said. “You climbed up quite a lot with that game, though. Anyway, I feel some kind of pressure to spend this money – do you have any suggestions?”

He sipped from his cappuchino with cinnamon, pumpkin spice and what-not and looked up at Marcus, his green eyes bright and a bit of milk foam on his upper lip. Marcus felt the sudden urge to wipe it away with his thumb – or even better, kiss it away.

“I don’t know,” he said somewhat belatedly. “Is there anything you want to do?”

“Actually there is,” Harry said. “Near where I live a new restaurant opened up just last week – it’s said to be brilliant. Would you like to go with me and see if it is actually that good?”

“Yes,” Marcus said; and his throat was very dry suddenly.

xXx

Harry laughed when Marcus showed up at his door in his best black dress robes – they had been a bit dusty as he had not worn them for the longest time, but with a few spells they had been almost as good as new. “It’s a Muggle restaurant,” he said, “but it’s sweet you dressed up. Do you mind?”

With no more than a snap of his fingers he transfigured Marcus’ dress robes into the Muggle equivalent of dress robes, complete with a white shirt and a black tie. Marcus was so awed by this casual display of wandless and silent magic that he couldn’t even reply when Harry suggested they’d leave and tugged at his sleeve to make him go.

Harry wore dark grey Muggle dress robes himself and he looked breath-taking, Marcus thought. Harry opened the door of his car for him and sat behind the wheel. He had a black car with darkened windows that looked quite expensive, Marcus found, equipped with black leather and dark wood on the inside. “Have you ever been to the Muggle world before?” Harry asked when he steered the car out of the driveway.

“Not really,” Marcus said. “I mean, yes, I have been in the Muggle world a few times, but only for a few hours or so.”

Harry smiled. “Most Purebloods don’t know what they are missing. I’ll show you.”

xXx

The restaurant had been brilliant indeed; with mahogany tables and comfortable leather chairs and all of it dipped into soft light from the lustres at the ceiling. Harry had ordered food for him, too, as he hadn’t recognized most things on the menu – he still didn’t know what exactly he had eaten, but it had been the best thing he had ever tasted in his life.

“We should come here more often,” he said after Harry had paid. He had protested, _he_ had wanted to pay the bill, but Harry had insisted that he needed to spend the money he had won from gambling.

“Yes,” he agreed, “next time you may pay.”

Marcus’ heart sped up at that; and even more when Harry took Marcus’ hand when they walked to the car. “Would you like to see a bit of Muggle London?”

“Yes,” Marcus said – he did not care what they did – he would have said yes to anything Harry suggested, just to spend some more time with him.

“Alright, let’s return to my house. We’d best apparate from there, London’s traffic is horrible even at that time.”

During their ride back, Marcus placed one hand over Harry’s on the gear stick; and Harry’s eyes lit up and he gave him a soft smile. Back in his house, Harry took his hands and apparated them both to London – normally Side-Along-Apparition was one of the worst things a wizard could experience, but somehow that horrible feeling of being squeezed through a way too small tube was completely missing with Harry – it felt more as if he were flying.

They arrived in a narrow alley and Harry took his hand with a smile. “C’mon, let’s go.” He led him through streets that got wider and wider every time and more and more overcrowded with cars and buses. The pavement was overcrowded with people, too, their faces bright in the darkness, and all of them laughing and chatting and pointing.

“Here we are,” Harry said, pulling him onto a huge square that was so brightly lit by colourful, flashing images Marcus had to close his eyes for a moment. “Piccadilly Circus.”

Marcus turned around, trying to see everything at once. There were images so bright they almost blinded him and crowds of people laughing and applauding for artists and acrobats who displayed their abilities on the bare ground. “What are these things?” he asked, pointing at one of the images. “I thought Muggle pictures didn’t move.”

“Photos don’t,” Harry said, “but these are not photos, these are monitors which is something very different. They do move and those things are advertisements. Have you ever tried coke before?” He pointed at one of the monitors that displayed the words “Coca Cola” in intertwined letters on a bright red background and Marcus shook his head.

Harry laughed. “Truly? Come on then, I’ll get you one.” They queued up before a small kiosk and Harry bought a bottle of brown liquid for him. “Try, c’mon, everyone must try it at least once. Ron _loves_ it.”

Carefully, Marcus took a sip – it tasted sweet and of something he had never tasted before, but definitely not bad. “It’s nice,” he said.

“Good,” Harry said with a laugh. “Neville hated it and up to this day, he claims I had tried to poison him. Let’s walk around a bit.” Hand in hand, they strolled through the night that was somehow much brighter than in the Wizarding World, with so many flashing and glittering lights and so many people on the streets.

Marcus didn’t know for how long they walked; he only knew that he never wanted to let go of Harry’s hand again; and that he wanted Harry to never stop smiling up at him. Marcus noted that Harry was shivering slightly and without saying a word, he hung his jacket over Harry’s shoulders and Harry gave him a grateful smile. After a while, they arrived at Thames River and Marcus glanced in awe at the huge, glittering towers on both sides of the river – they were surely higher than even the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts. And there was a huge bridge that spanned the river – it seemed to be quite ancient, and yet it was dipped into bright green light that changed to red slowly.

“The Tower Bridge,” Harry explained, his voice soft and a bit breathless, “it’s one of the landmarks of Muggle London.”

They stood very close now, with Harry directly before him, gazing up at him with bright green eyes. A cool breeze ruffled his messy black hair and he placed his hands on Marcus’ shoulders.

And then, he stood on his tip-toes, and he was oh-so-close now that Marcus could see the tiny golden specks in his green eyes, but then he closed his eyes and kissed him on the mouth, a soft and gentle touch at first; and Marcus felt that his lips were slightly apart and, with his heart beating so forcefully he thought it must stop any moment, he opened his lips, too, and then Harry’s tongue was in his mouth.

He made a small, content sound that made Marcus’ nerves flutter; and suddenly his hands were on Harry’s body, one on his neck and the other on his waist. And, miraculously, his too-large hand fit around Harry’s waist perfectly as if they were made for one another, and Harry’s lithe form pressed against his own so perfectly he thought they might melt into one another.

When their kiss finally stopped, Marcus was breathing heavily and Harry’s face was flushed and his lips red and swollen. “Would you care for a coffee?” he asked. “Let’s return to my house – don’t worry, I also have ordinary coffee.”

xXx

They never had that coffee, though.

When they stood in Harry’s kitchen, Harry looked at him, his eyes so intense now as Marcus had never seen them before. His hands grabbed Marcus’ shirt, pulling him down for another kiss. Both were breathless when the kiss ended and Harry pressed himself against him, one hand in his neck, the other digging into his shirt. “Do you want to spend the night?” he breathed.

“Yes,” Marcus whispered, his blood rushing in his ears; and Harry kissed him so passionately he forgot everything around himself.

Somehow, they managed to stumble into Harry’s bedroom, their clothes slipping onto the floor only to be replaced by hungry kisses on heated skin. Harry lay down on the bed, pulling Marcus onto him; and they rolled over the bed, with uncoordinated, jumbling moves, yet Marcus thought nothing could be more perfect than this.

When they stopped moving for a moment, Harry’s naked body was dipped into soft pale moonlight which made him look like an ethereal being; and it was the most beautiful sight Marcus had ever seen. Harry whispered: “I want you, Marcus, I want you, I want you.”

He could only utter a breathless “yes, now” and Harry’s smile lit up the world.

xXx

“Why me?” Marcus asked. They were still in bed and he was exhausted, but in the best way possible. They had had sex twice in the evening, and once more in the morning when they had awoken with the sheets and their limbs tangled and the scent of last night still in the air and the taste of each other’s skin still on their lips.

Harry smiled softly. He lay half atop Marcus, his chin resting on Marcus’ chest. “Why not you?” he asked back.

Marcus shrugged. “There is just… most people don’t like and are afraid of me. I’m ugly. I’m too tall and too burly. I’m bad-tempered and moody and –”

“Stop,” Harry said so sharply Marcus actually flinched. “None of this is true. I like that you are honest. I like that you listen to me and you remember what I told you and not what you wanted to hear. I like that you are kind to me.” He stroked along Marcus’ throat, his gaze intense and sincere. “I like the way you look. I like that you are tall and muscular, and I like the way you touch me and the way you kiss me and I like the way you smile.”

“I like the way you smile, too,” Marcus said hoarsely. He had never complimented anyone before, but it was not as hard as he had thought. “I like the way your whole face lights up when you smile at me. I like the way your lips look when we have kissed. I like the way you look at me, so intense. I like the way you laugh. I like that you don’t mind me not talking much.”

And surprisingly, Marcus found that he couldn’t stop listing all the things he liked about Harry until Harry laughed and stopped him with a kiss.

They did not leave bed anymore that day.

xXx

Somehow, it was always Harry who asked the important questions. “Would you like to move in?” he asked. It was eight weeks after their first night together and they lay on the thick, fuzzy carpet before Harry’s fireplace, naked and exhausted, yet satisfied.

“Yes,” Marcus said; and he imagined how wonderful it would be to fall asleep with Harry in his arms every night instead of only two or three nights a week; and to cook dinner with him every night (well, Marcus was not a gifted cook, but Harry was and he liked his meals as crazy as he liked his coffee); and to have breakfast in bed (the only thing Marcus could make taste amazing were pancakes); and all these small mundane things like taking a walk together, going out for a fly in the dark of the night, sitting in the garden and chatting until the stars paled when the sun came out, spending lazy nights in front of the fireplace would come together in a kaleidoscope of beautiful memories, each brighter than the next.

Harry smiled. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Marcus said and he was not the least bit sad about having to leave his own flat.

xXx

“Would you like to get to know my friends?”

Marcus felt that he already knew Harry’s friends; they came alive in all of his stories and in the brightness of Harry’s eyes whenever he talked about them.

There was Neville, a classmate of Harry’s in Gryffindor; he was a chubby young man with a soft, friendly smile and ever-dirty hands from working in the garden with his magical plants.

There was Luna, a tiny, seemingly fragile witch with long blonde hair, who smiled dreamily and braided ivy into her hair and said the oddest things.

And there were the Weasleys who had invited Harry and him to a barbecue with Neville and Luna in attendance at well. Marcus had been as nervous as before an important Quidditch game, but Harry had told him he needn’t be. And indeed all of them welcomed him warmly and none of them even said a word about him being a Slytherin. At first, he had had trouble remembering all the names because there were just so many redheads, but he had recognized Ron even before Harry had introduced them to one another – Ron was Harry’s best friend and with no more than one glance you could see the deep bond between them.

“Good to finally meet you, mate,” Ron greeted him with a handshake, “Harry has been talking of you non-stop.”

“He has been talking a lot about you, too,” Marcus said and Harry grinned at him.

“Harry, can we play Quidditch now?” the girl on Ron’s hand asked. She had bushy brown hair and looked up at him with large blue eyes. Marcus thought her to be eight or so; and she held a children’s broom in one hand.

“Later, after dinner, sweetie,” Harry said, “besides you can play with Marcus tonight. He is a Chaser for the Brighton Bats and he can teach you a lot more than I can.”

“Really?” the girl whispered; and now she looked at Marcus with her huge blue eyes. “I didn’t know that was you. I’m a huge fan of the Brighton Bats.”

“Harry has corrupted my children,” Ron complained, “Rose used to be a Chudley Cannons fan until Harry turned her. But good work in your last game, mate. Pity only you defeated _my_ favourite team.”

xXx

“Marcus, I need to tell you something.” Harry’s face was unusually serious when he sat down at the dinner table that evening.

“Yes?” Marcus said, his voice hoarse and his heart clenching.

Harry smiled. “Oh, don’t worry, this has nothing to do with us – well, it does… in a way.” He stared at his hands for a moment. “How are the Brighton Bats doing financially? Do you know?”

“Good,” Marcus said, “better than ever, in fact. They are doing so good they doubled all of our salaries and we will have the Firebolt 8 next season.” He was earning so much money now that he had quit his shitty job in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. His last day at the Ministry would be next week and he wouldn’t miss anything about it except for his daily coffee break with Harry.

“Well… I don’t know how else to say this, but _I_ bought the Brighton Bats back then.”

“Come again?” Marcus said, dumbfounded.

“Well, I had read in _Brooms & Twigs_ how badly they were doing, so I did some discreet investigations and the numbers I had seen… were devastating at the very least. So devastating the club would go bankrupt in a matter of months. But you were in the team and I… I didn’t want you to lose your job. So I bought them – it is not that easy to simply buy a Quidditch club, but sometimes there are advantages to being the Boy-Who-Lived. After I had paid all the debts and salaries and invested in new equipment and a stadium, everything went so much smoother than I had ever dared hoping – partly thanks to your playing – I could hardly believe it and the Brighton Bats are easily worth double of what they were worth before.”

Marcus only stared at him. “How could you _buy_ a Quidditch club?”

Harry smiled sadly. “I inherited the Potter and the Black fortune and I received a ridiculous amount of money for defeating Voldemort and even more for the Order of Merlin. I am… rich. Well, I _am_ the richest wizard in Great Britain. But there is not a day when I wish I weren’t and all the people in my life who died were still alive instead.”

Marcus didn’t know what to think of it – it was impossible to even wrap his mind around his fact that Harry had casually bought a Quidditch club – normally, they belonged to at least two or three companies – he knew that for example Brooms & More Inc. owned more than a third of the Liverpool Lizards and that Gringotts owned half of the Glasgow Griffins.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Harry said quietly, looking down at his dinner that must be cold by now.

“Why would I mind?” Marcus asked.

“Well, because I indirectly paid your salary – and because, in a very abstract way, I am your boss. _I_ decided your salaries should be doubled. _I_ decided the players should have the Firebolt 8 so you could beat the Glasgow Griffins next season. And… well, I know Ron would mind. He’s not fond of… _charity_.”

“But it’s not charity,” Marcus said, “all of us are working for our money. It’s not like you bestow the money upon us.”

“Still, it’s weird,” Harry said with a nervous little laugh. “Don’t you think so?”

“A bit, maybe,” Marcus admitted – it was not like he truly minded Harry owning the Brighton Bats, and yet, there was something unsettling about it, that much was right.

“Well, that’s why I sold the club again for about more than double I paid for it, even including the debts,” Harry said matter-of-factly, “and the contract says that salaries must be paid at all times and that all players must always have the best possible equipment – if they don’t fulfil that part, they will have to explain themselves to _me_. I just wanted you to know. I didn’t want this thing to stand between us.”

“It’s fine,” Marcus said, taking one of Harry’s hands into his own large hands. “I don’t mind, really. But still I’m glad you told me. I just thought… well, now that you don’t own the Brighton Bats anymore, what about a new Quidditch club?”

“Which club were you thinking of?” Harry asked and Marcus was more than glad to see that the smile had returned to his eyes.

“The Chudley Cannons?” Marcus suggested. “Without telling Ron, of course.”

xXx

Smiling, Marcus thinks of their journeys – Harry had shown him so many Muggle towns all throughout Europe; and they had been to New York and to Rio de Janeiro and to Beijing and they had strolled between medieval houses and glittering skyscrapers and had tried myriads of food; and he thinks of lazy summer days when they lay in the garden all day long, sipping ice water and enjoying the boiling heat; and he thinks of long strolls in winter, through knee-deep snow, and with glowing cheeks and frozen fingers afterwards; and he thinks of falling asleep with Harry curled up in his arms and waking up with Harry next to him.

But there are bad days, too. There are days when Harry is frustrated by work and won’t eat, only picking at his food and then going off to fly on his own; or when he is frustrated by his fame and the things that come with it, like crappy articles in the Daily Prophet and thousands of fans who are just like Holly Abbott. Luckily – or they consider it lucky at least – their relationship has never been mentioned in the papers, despite lasting for three and a half years now, and Marcus wouldn’t mind keeping it that way – neither he nor Harry are particularly interested in showing up as couple on social gatherings in the Wizarding World – Harry always tries his best to avoid them and Marcus only gives people who try to invite him a frown that makes them retreat hastily and reconsider their offer.

There are the days when Marcus finds Harry crying over photos of people he loved; “they died so I could live,” he says then and Marcus tells him that it is not true and holds him close until Harry stops crying – and yet it is only Harry’s tears Marcus manages to stop, but never the grief.

And there are the worst days, the worst days of all. Marcus shivers and pulls Harry closer.

Every seventeenth of November, Harry and Ron commemorate Hermione’s death – Hermione had been Ron’s wife – she died after giving birth to their youngest son Hugo; it was never fully resolved how it happened – Hugo had been expected to be a squib, but somehow Hermione must have managed to transfer her magic to her son, but died after the loss of her magic. This was not supposed to be possible, had never been heard of before, but as Harry said, a mother’s love was stronger than the laws of magic.

Marcus doesn’t know what Ron and Harry do on that day – he is never with them; the last three years he spent every seventeenth of November at the Weasleys’, celebrating Hugo’s birthday and trying to explain to a crying child why his father and godfather can’t be with him.

Harry only shows his sadness rarely; he tries to hide it behind frozen smiles and forced laughter, but Marcus thinks that all of it breaks out of him on that very day, like the ocean breaking a dam and there is nothing that could stop it.

They must drink themselves into unconsciousness, Marcus supposes, after visiting her grave, for Harry is drunker than Marcus had ever thought possible when he returns on the next day; with his eyes bloodshot and bruises on his face and blood on his clothes. And Marcus keeps silent when Harry screams, cursing everyone and everything because it’s the twenty-first century and a woman shouldn’t die when giving birth to a child, cursing his friends, cursing Ron, cursing Marcus, cursing Hugo for surviving when Hermione should have lived, but most of all cursing himself for not being able to save her; and Marcus holds him back when he claws at his own face, screaming and howling; and he presses Harry’s face against his chest and protects him with his body when Harry’s magic runs wild and shatters all of their dishes, shaking the cupboards and making the walls of their house groan and the windows crack and splinter; and he holds him when he throws up, sobbing and crying and calling Hermione’s name between gagging fits; and he carries Harry to their bed when his maniac episode has passed and heals his self-inflicted wounds and cleans the house and repairs everything that has broken.

“If it were not for you and Ron and the children, I would’ve killed myself long ago,” Harry said once when he woke again after Marcus had carried him to bed, “so see that you don’t die before me, ‘cause if you do, I’ll kill myself. I can’t stand it, Marcus, and I can’t stand even the thought of you dying. Hermione’s death took yet another part of my sanity; and if you die, all of it will be gone, so see that you don’t.” And then he fell asleep again, his fingernails digging into Marcus’ palm as if he wanted to never let go of him; and Marcus stared at the deep gash on his cheek where he had somehow managed to free his hand from Marcus’ grip and clawed at his face screaming, with blood running down his cheek and his hands.

At this memory, Marcus pulls Harry closer and strokes his cheek, running his finger over the long, thin scar, remainder of that night.

These are the dark pieces of the kaleidoscope, he supposes, for not everything can be bright and wonderful. Hermione’s death is like a web of darkness over Harry’s life and while Marcus can’t get rid of it, he can fill the spaces in between with a thousand beautiful memories.

“I love you,” he whispers and presses a kiss onto the scar on Harry’s cheek.

Harry sighs, his lashes fluttering, and then he blinks at him sleepily. “I love you, too.” He kisses Marcus’ chin and slips back into sleep again only seconds after.

And so there is yet another moment to brighten the darkness. Marcus lies back, closes his eyes and falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I hope you liked it, I would love to hear what you thought of my story! :)


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